


Fight Like A Girl

by theperipheral



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wrestling, F/F, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theperipheral/pseuds/theperipheral
Summary: Clarke body slams other women for a living. It's just a job to her, but her new tag partner lives and breathes pro-wrestling.





	Fight Like A Girl

**Author's Note:**

> The pro-wrestling AU that one person asked for! 
> 
> Thanks to my beta for giving me the confidence to post this! ^^

_It’s a story_.

That’s what Clarke tells herself as she jogs from foot to foot, shaking her hands out. She adjusts her knee guard where it pinches below her thigh. She closes her eyes and lets out a calming breath.

“Hey, relax, it’s just a story,” her coach, Raven says, clapping her on the shoulder. “You’ll do great. It’s gonna be a great. You’ll be fantastic, she’ll be fantastic, just calm down. This is the next step on your way to the top.”

She can hear the announcer psyching up the crowd just through the doors and shakes off the urge to gulp. She tells herself again, _it’s just a story_. The speaker in the room clicks on, the red standby light above the door flicks to yellow and she steels herself.

“And now!” the over enthusiastic announcer waits for the audience to hush a little. “We have a hell of a show for you tonight folks, let me tell you. Let’s get to it! What you’ve all been waiting for! The main event! The fight of the night!”

Clarke wishes he would just get on with it.

“Allow me to introduce our challenger! A rising star of the circuit, a paragon of virtue, the true upholder of justice. I, give you…!”

The crowd waits with bated breath. They know exactly who’s on the billing, but there’s a certain procedure that must be followed, and the announcer has done his job right. The lights drop, and so does Clarke’s stomach.

“Sky Princess!”

God, Clarke hates that name, just like she hates the ‘girl-next-door-who-could-also-kick-your-ass’ persona she’s been given. She doesn’t have time to glare at her manager for coming up with it, because the doors slam open, the lights flash blinding white and the crowd goes wild. She runs forward and greets her public.

Admittedly, pro wrestling had not been on the top of her list of ideal careers, but fresh out of art school with few contacts, she’d had fewer options. She’d simply been at the right place at the right time - that being the gym a few blocks from her home at 3am following a particularly bad life-choice-questioning phone call from her mother. A gym owned by Anya Forrester, better known by her alter-ego, The General, who is now stalking across the walkway towards the ring opposite her.

Clarke ducks between the ropes and appears offended by her rival’s jeering gesture. In truth they’re friends, but in the ring, the reality they’re now occupying, they’re bitter enemies, only a tentative mutual respect keeping them from ripping each other apart.

The referee stands between them, arms outstretched as though warning them off each other. He points warningly at The General, who pretends to lunge forward with a smirk on her face, hoping to psyche out her opponent. The ref draws them both to the centre, where he wants them to pose eye to eye for a moment for the cameras.

“Let’s keep this clean, ladies,” he says finally when there’s enough footage.

Sky Princess nods and offers her hand in a display of good faith. The General slaps it away with a sneer and the crowd laps it up, a roar of disapproval raising the roof. The Princess shakes her head at the dismal sportsmanship and heads to her starting side. In the crowd, she spots where Raven waits with a towel over her shoulder and a long straw-ed cup in her hand. She gives a firm nod, Clarke returns it. The ref backs away from the centre.

The bell rings and suddenly The General is upon her, springing up from a run to punch at her from the air. The Sky Princess barely dodges and is caught on the wrong foot as she stumbles away and her front meets the ropes, sending her flying backwards. The General jumps up at the corner and leaps down upon her, leading with her left hand to give the opportunity to counter. The Princess grabs her arm and yanks, sending a knee into her unguarded stomach.

The audience loves the reversal, cheering as The General tries and fails to block blow after blow until suddenly - she surges forward and flips The Princess onto her back, pinning her down. The Princess struggles, gives a well-placed jab to The General’s side that sends her limp and she gets to her feet. She slams her heel down on the canvas next to her opponent’s hand. To the cameras, it looks like it landed on the flesh and The General clutches at it in faux agony.

They carry on performing, neither relenting until the ref gets close to inspect the choke hold The General has on The Princess.

“Program change,” he mutters to both of them, effectively telling them he needs an excuse to talk. He gestures to the floor, as though he’s actually asking if The Sky Princess wants to tap out in pain and forfeit the match. She shakes her head and writhes, bucking up to try to escape.

The Princess is dragged up from the floor, her head still under The General’s arm. She’s barely able to brace herself in time as The General jumps up and drops to the canvas, slamming her face first. She goes limp as her opponent rolls away to gloat. The ref skids up on his knees to check on her, and she remains unresponsive.

“Commander’s coming, Gen wins,” he hisses as a boot comes down on the back of her neck. She cries out in faux anguish. The message delivered, The General is instantly reprimanded for illegally standing on her. Though they’ve not actually been hurting each other seriously, the exertion of making it look convincing takes its toll. Clarke takes the moment when Anya’s too busy being yelled at to recuperate and catch her breath.

This was supposed to be her first major victory, the one that would propel her to the big-leagues. Instead, it looks like she’ll have her ass thoroughly handed to her through some producer’s last minute change of heart. She does her best to not let her disappointment show. Anya looks over at her, a flicker of concern on her face. She’s just as surprised by the turn of events.

The Princess surges upwards and onto the offensive, all showmanship with impressive throws and unexpected counters. The General can barely keep up – the announcer is screaming that something must have been knocked out of place when she fell on her head. The Princess spins and thrusts a sharp elbow into The General’s back, sending her sprawling to the floor. She circles, arms raised as she looks up at the crowd’s adoring faces as her rival scrabbles at the canvas, struggling to stand.

The cheers change suddenly, from praise and adulation to warning and The Princess is sent tumbling to the ground. She turns herself over, blinking up at the bright studio lights and sees the face of her attacker looking down at her. The Commander stands over her, steel chair in hand. Her dark mask of paint gives her a terrifying aura in the ring.

A moment passes and the ref runs up, grabbing the chair and admonishing The Commander for her intrusion on the match. The General is slowly getting to her feet, thanking her tag-team partner for the assist. The two look at each other, and before he can blink, The Commander’s foot is planted firmly on the referee’s chest and he’s down, pushed out of the ring completely. The crowd laps it up, not a single person remains in their seat.

The partners circle the Sky Princess like vultures, debating which of them will give the final blow and pin her until time runs out. Eventually, something passes across The Commander’s face, and she steps back to slip through the ropes to watch from afar.

The General manoeuvres The Princess’s limbs into a tight hold and heaves her up, only to slam her back into the mat, this time on her front. A swift kick meets her ribs, and The Princess heaves, unable to stand. She feels a knee pressing into her spine for a moment, then she’s pinned. She tries to kick out, but she’s still winded, and the shocked audience counts down until – the bell rings.

It’s over. The General rises, victorious. She’s booed from all sides and she drinks it in, laughing as the referee slides shakily over, and declares her the winner. Screams of interference come from all sides, a security guard makes a show of holding Raven back from a fit of rage.

The Commander takes The General’s Hand, shaking it in congratulations. The crowd yells its satisfaction as her other hand forms a fist and connects with her partner’s face.

“I shouldn’t have to save your ass!” she shouts into the mic the referee conveniently holds out. The General lunges to take a swing of her own, but her coach scrambles and pulls her out of the ring, out of the arena. The crowd cries out for blood as The Commander turns on her heel and offers a hand to the still struggling-to-stand Sky Princess.

“You did well today.”

-

Hours later, after she’s checked over for injury and showered, Clarke emerges from her dressing room to find Anya and Lexa waiting for her. Anya apologises for the alteration in the show, despite it not being her choice.

“I only came in to watch the match, but they collared me,” Lexa explains, softer without her Commander guise.

Clarke isn’t really mad. She doesn’t get paid by the win after all.

“What’s with the sudden change of plans? Did they say?”

“The usual,” Anya shrugs. “Producers wanted more drama.”

“They’re breaking up their top tag-team?”

“Looks like it,” Lexa doesn’t seem impressed. She’s one of the bigger stars after all, she’s supposed to be consulted before any big storyline changes.

“Sorry,” Clarke shrugs and makes to leave. She’s tired and just wants to go home. “I’ll call you in the morning, An.”

-

Later, just as she’s about to go to sleep, Clarke’s phone buzzes with a text message.

_I meant it when I said you did well. See you at training, L_

-

They’ve never actually trained together before. They’ve been at the gym at the same time, but never spotted for one another or talked about anything other than work. Now that they are, Clarke discovers that Lexa is the exact opposite of her in-ring persona. While The Commander is somewhat calculating and precise in where her blows fall, Lexa herself is only too happy to help with Clarke’s admittedly sloppy routine.

They start with a few warm ups and light cardio, before moving on to squats and thigh lifts – Clarke’s power is in her legs after all. They move onto upper body and as Lexa tightens the grip holding the weights on Clarke’s bar, she clears her throat to talk. 

“Have you heard anything about your next storyline?” she asks, taking her position a few feet from the bench. Clarke peers up at her, adjusting her hold and bringing the bar down from the stand to her chest.

“Nope, I figure another year or two in the baby leagues after last night’s performance,” she groans out, pushing up for a clean rep. Lexa nods at the action, impressed.

“I got a call this morning, about where Anya and I will be going next season. They want our team to split.”

“Oh. I’m sorry about that, you guys work well together.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. We’re getting predictable, people always know which way to bet.”

That explained it then. A lot of the league’s popularity came from the unpredictability of its match-ups, and a lot of its money came from betting. If it was becoming too obvious who was going to win, something had to change.

“Is that what last night was about? Starting to break up the unbeatable?”

“Looks like it.”

After a few more reps in silence, they switch, Clarke adding a few more pounds for Lexa’s slightly stronger arms. Lexa fiddles with her fingerless weight gloves but doesn’t lie back to take the bar.

“I think they want you to be my partner.”

Clarke’s shocked, and her sputter of amusement shows that. Lexa scowls playfully.

“After the inevitable bust up with Anya anyway. I’m sure they’ve got some fantastic story about a good girl going bad or whatever to explain it.”

“Do I get a new name too? Please tell me I do.”

“The hell if I know!” Lexa laughs. “I’m just guessing from your match and what little my manager said. We’ll find out at contract renewals, I guess.”

-

The General leaps into the ring during one of The Commander’s matches and helps her opponent beat down on her partner – and announces it as retribution. It costs The Commander her chance at a one-on-one match with the reigning champion.

The break-up of the undisputed champions of women’s tag-team wrestling is huge. News outlets are buzzing, betting rings are pleasantly surprised to make a huge profit on the match and fans couldn’t be more excited to see The General and The Commander’s next moves.

Contract renewal rolls around, and it turns out that Lexa was right, the producers do indeed what Clarke as her partner. Anya’s new tag partner is another relative newcomer by the name of Tris – who they expect to have a huge rivalry storyline with.

-

Training is suddenly a lot harder for Clarke. Not only does she have to take on more to be of the same calibre as her new partner, she also has to spend extra hours at the gym sparring. They need to get to know every move the other has in their repertoire and it takes weeks before they’re even able to meet anyone in a practice ring with any confidence.

They go against Harper and Monroe, who have been a team since their rookie days, but sadly lack the charisma for the big games. They’re in sync, but not prepared for the more experienced duo unexpectedly and sneakily clothes-lining them both at once. After that, the match dissolves into a fit of giggles and it’s hard to concentrate. They manage to hold it together to get a pin each, but neither team really has their heart in it.

The hardest thing, Clarke finds, is Lexa herself. They’ve known each other for the entirety of her career, but working with her is like meeting an entirely new person. When they were on opposite sides of the competition’s factions, they didn’t talk a whole lot. Lexa’s focused, but not to the point of obsession. She makes Clarke push herself harder, and while, yes, that’s a good thing, she _aches_. The most frustrating thing about Lexa is that she’s so damn nice and understanding if she struggles. It’s _cute_ , and Clarke can’t deal with that because it makes her lose her concentration, and then Lexa is _even nicer_ and _more understanding_ and it’s a vicious cycle of _cute_.

When the new season starts up, it’s made clear that The Commander respects The Sky Princess’s sense of justice, and maybe has a soft spot for her. They support each other in interviews and Sky Princess implies she doesn’t hold a grudge for helping The General beat her. Narratively speaking, it’s an obvious build up and the press love it.

Rumours start flying when they’re seen out together, laughing about something that neither of them can recall in hindsight. Strangely, her twitter mentions (which Clarke normally avoids) talk about how Lexa looks at her with more than friendly affection. Clarke can’t help but agonise about it for days, and thanks whoever-in-heaven for her workouts making her naturally red and breathless when they’re together – because she’s almost certainly blushing every time Lexa so much as looks her way.

-

Doctor Radiant is one of the most recognisable figures of women’s wrestling. She’s been around for years and recently her on-stage persona has been built around grumbling about the up and coming young women vying for her spot. She’s a tough opponent at the best of times, but Clarke thinks she’s being difficult on purpose.

The Sky Princess is supposed to win this match, but Clarke can’t help but think she’s being set up again as The Doctor slips from her grip for the third time and throws her from behind. It’s not what they rehearsed, but she adapts. The Princess remains on her back as The Doctor circles her, waving to the crowd. Clarke catches Becca’s eye and kicks her feet out from under her.

Spying opportunity, The Princess hauls herself up using the ropes and climbs them while The Doctor rolls around clutching her knee. The crowd screams as she balances on the two top ropes and holds her arms out to bask in their support. She looks down one final time and leaps, her torso connecting with The Doctor’s and winding her. It’s the perfect position to manoeuvre into a covering pin, so she does, relieved when her opponent doesn’t fight it.

The referee slaps the canvas once, twice, three times - and she’s won, finally. The bell rings and the announcers start their spiel about how surprised they are to see Doctor Radiant lose to a relative newcomer. The Sky Princess breathes heavily, arms outstretched in victory. She takes her bow, her theme plays over the loudspeakers, and then -

The overhead lights drop. Sky Princess scans the arena in confusion, rapidly turning and turning again to find a reason for what’s going on. The crowd murmurs excitedly. Spotlights swirl over the stage entrance, and The Princess steels herself for another fight. She paces the ring impatiently, yelling at the organisers for allowing an unplanned addition to the fight roster. They all ignore that there are only ten minutes of broadcast time left.

Right on cue, the lights stop dancing and focus on one empty spot. The audience holds its collective breath. A long black boot steps out of the darkness and suddenly The Commander is there, a dark figure bathed in the white of the limelight. Kohled eyes scan the crowd with disinterest, then focus on the ring.

The low riff of The Commander’s theme plays over the loudspeakers as she stalks forward purposefully, her red cape flowing behind her. She slides into the ring and stands before the Princess, hands clasped together at her front. Camera flashes blind from all sides as they stare at each other. The Commander is stoic and intimidating, Sky Princess is unflinching. The referee bumbles up to hold a mic between them. They both ignore him for a moment longer.

“What do you want, Commander?”

The crowd clamours forward in their seats, repeating the question until it becomes a roar of meaningless noise. The Commander turns and flicks her gaze over them and the din subsides a little. She rips the mic from the ref and banishes him with a wave of her hand.

“Once, this league meant something,” she declares, staring out over the audience. “Once, there was respect between the warriors who stepped into this ring.”

There’s a pause as she points down at the stage and a cameraman whips around to get a close-up.

“Once, a fighter could come here and know they were up against the best for a chance to _be_ the best. The good Doctor here is not the best.”

The disgraced Doctor Radiant, still struggling to stand, shoots a dark glare. The crowd jeers at the slight against one of their most seasoned fighters. She’s never been popular, but she’s been around so long that they’re protective. Sky Princess tears her eyes away from The Commander to offer her hand to her fallen opponent. It’s the fair thing to do. The Commander steps between them.

“When I heard what the Doctor had to say about our Princess before the match, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”

The Doctor surges upwards before she can continue, driving her shoulder into The Commander’s legs and sending her crashing into the canvas. The mic skitters away to the other side of the ring, ignored as the match loser pounds the floor either side of her head. As the crowd screams for blood, Sky Princess leaps over and throws her arm around The Doctor’s neck, dragging her up and off and away, then throws her on her back where she rolls and writhes.

The Commander takes a moment, lying on her side as she tries to catch her breath. She crawls over to the mic and lifts herself up on one knee. She scowls at her attacker but does not deign to approach her.

“As I was saying,” she breathes out heavily. “Our noble sport is based on rivalry and the people pay to see that. But there’s a time and a place for calling someone out. There’s no respect in name calling. There’s no honour in attacking someone when they’re not there to defend themselves.”

Sky Princess rounds on Doctor Radiant, shaking her head in disappointment. She doesn’t know what was said exactly, but she’s sure she’ll hear all about it in the post-match interviews. She opens her arms in a questioning gesture, but is only given a hard stare.

“That’s why I’m here. This isn’t something new, this disrespect has been going on for years and it comes all the way from the top. There’s The General,” she sneers at the name of her former partner, “Undercover, The Burn.”

The crowd’s boos intensify as the list continues, every major villain of the league ticked off.

“And worst of all, The Queen.” The din is deafening as The Commander lets her words sink in. “The Queen, who sits on her throne and sets her minions on anyone who might threaten her legacy.”

Sky Princess finds herself nodding along.

“I say we bring honour back to this competition. I say we bring justice back to this league and put the worst of the worst in the trash where they belong.”

The Commander whips around to face The Princess, addressing her solely. She holds out an arm in an offer of peace.

“Join me, and we _can_ bring those things back.”

The audience screeches at the prospect. Clarke can’t hear them. All she can do is reach out and grasp Lexa’s arm, and hold it.

-

Clarke bursts into laughter as soon as they’re done with the post-match interviews. She can’t help it; her job is too ridiculous and people take it so seriously. There are journalists out there calling it the most exciting pair-up in years. Raven runs up to congratulate her on a successful show.

“Fuck Becca though, she’s going down.”

Clarke has only learned the gist of what was said before the match, and it’s nothing that she hasn’t heard before in the vitriol of the stage. _The Princess is a talentless nobody, not fit for the pedigree of this ring, blah, blah,_ meaningless words that don’t weigh on Clarke’s mind.

“So anyway,” Raven barrels on. “I’m gonna go work out your new cardio routine. I’m doubling your spar time and upping your protein intake. You’re in the big leagues now so buckle up!”

Her whole team is understandably excited. Her publicist wants to set up a meeting to go over some possible endorsements and her agent wants to renegotiate his fee. Throughout the flurry of people vying for Clarke’s attention, Lexa remains by her side. She doesn’t say anything but she’s a solid, grounding presence that keeps Clarke from losing her head in the insanity of it all.

It takes a couple of hours for the flow of well-wishers and carrion-feeders to slow to a halt, and Clarke is exhausted by the time her dressing room empties out. She slumps at her dressing table and rests her head between a can of hairspray and a tub of golden body glitter. She spies Lexa smirking at her in the mirror.

“Is it always like this? Normally I just have a match and go home. Now people want things from me.”

Lexa moves to perch on the table by her head and nudges her arm.

“You’ll never have free time again,” she says, far too seriously.

Clarke slides further down in her chair.

“I didn’t even join for the fame or the sponsorships, I just wanted to piss off my mom. I guess she can’t pretend I’m ‘taking a break from education’ now that my face is gonna be plastered on pay-per-view ads.”

“Just wait, soon your action figure will actually look like you and she won’t be able to avoid it.”

Clarke groans. She’d forgotten about the plastic abomination sold under her stage name.

“Those things are all the same body with a different head slapped on.”

“Maybe, but they give kids more choice than another fashion doll or ‘roided up army guy. Think about it Clarke, we’re role models for thousands of girls out there just discovering their own power.”

“Yeah, just discovering that they can body-slam their siblings into next week.”

“Damn right.”

Lexa’s reflection grins and Clarke can’t help but smile back. An encouraging hand falls on her shoulder and she jerks at the unexpected contact.

“You’re doing great. Those kids couldn’t have a better role model than you.”

Clarke snorts and can’t help turning to laugh at her, eyebrow raised in amusement.

“It’s just a story.”

“No, it’s more than that. What do you think a little girl who gets bullied at school is going to see when you’re in that ring beating up bad guys? It’s inspirational.”

Mostly, she’s just considered her job as a form of softcore porn for redneck dudes who got off on women stronger than them.

“I... nah, that’s ridiculous.”

“I mean it, Clarke. You’re some kid’s hero, and one day there’s going to be a wrestler out there who got into the sport because they saw you in the ring and thought ‘I want to be like her’.”

“I doubt it.”

Lexa shrugs.

“Think about it. You already know I like what you do out there.”

Clarke smiles weakly.

“I know. I appreciate it.”

-

The league doesn’t technically allow its wrestlers to drink alcohol during the on-season. It messes with fitness goals and a lot of the sponsors don’t like to be associated with it. Things are very different from the early days of wrestling when it was all booze, sex and gratuitous violence. Most viewers are happy enough with the illusion of the latter two if they can enjoy the first in their seats.

But what the producers don’t know won’t hurt them, and when a few of the guys from the men’s division decide that they want a midseason party nothing will stop them. Clarke isn’t particularly close with any of them and tries to tell herself she’s glad that she’s not invited.

“It’ll end up a damn mess,” she tells Lexa as they enter the changing rooms after a sparring session.

“Probably.”

None of the other women are invited either, but Lexa insists she doesn’t want to go in the first place. Clarke dumps her bag on a bench more roughly than she intends.

“We should have our own party,” she decides.

Lexa laughs, then stops when Clarke glares at her.

“What’s the point? We have practice tomorrow morning, so it’s not like we can even get drunk.”

“Who said anything about drunk? Just let loose a little, relax. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Well,” Lexa tilts her head to one side. “The party turns into a rager, we get wasted out of our minds and end up fighting some dudebros because one of them pinches your ass. It’s all over twitter before you can say ‘neckbreaker’. Then we turn up to practice either still drunk or insanely hungover, get tested, then demoted to baby-fights as punishment. As a result, our careers and then our lives spiral out of control and we wind up propping up a seedy bar lamenting the ‘good old days’.”

“Wow. That’s quite the party.”

“Yeah.”

“You think we’d stay friends through all that?”

“I did say ‘we’, didn’t I?” Lexa smirks.

“That’s sweet, let’s do it,” Clarke grins, and turns back to dig a towel out of her bag. “Okay, no party, but how about we go out for dinner?”

“You’re determined to get me out, aren’t you?”

“We only ever see each other at work. I’m not even sure you own a pair of jeans.”

“I do,” Lexa says as she throws her own towel over her shoulder.

“Great, so wear them when we go out.”

“I’m really not in the mood to go anywhere tonight, Clarke.” Lexa’s tone suggests she’s somewhat frustrated with the conversation and Clarke deflates at the outright rejection.

“Okay, well maybe some other time. I’m going to see these jeans if it kills me.”

“I just don’t want to be bothered by fans. You could come over to my place if you want? I’ll make you a salad.”

“Does that line usually get girls to come home with you? Salad?” Clarke raises her eyebrows in amusement and leans back against her locker as she closes it.

“I…” Lexa fiddles with her padlock, struggling to get it closed. “Do you want to or not?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ll text you my address. Come by around six?”

-

On her way over, Clarke stops by the store to pick up some wine. They’d said they wouldn’t get dunk, but that doesn’t mean they can’t get pleasantly buzzed. She stands in a supermarket aisle lined with bottles and it occurs to her that she knows nothing about wine and has no idea what to get. She considers collaring an assistant, but there are none in sight and she doesn’t feel like wandering.

_Hey, are you actually making a salad, or are you going to surprise me with a steak and fries? C_

She shoots off a text, hoping that she’ll get a speedy reply that’ll make it clearer.

_Would you take a steak salad as a compromise? L_

She smiles at her phone.

_If I have to, C._

_You do. L_

Clarke’s stomach churns. She tells herself that she’s nervous because it’s been a while since she’s had to make a good impression in someone’s home, not because of the company that she’ll have. It’s not, and she keeps repeating that it’s not in her head, but it feels like a date.

After what’s probably too long to be standing in the wine aisle, an assistant finally approaches.

“Hey there, do you need help with anything?” His tone implies that he’s more nervous about talking to a stranger than he is genuine about helping.

“Steak salad.” She’s downright charismatic on a global stage, and there she stands, blurting words at a confused looking teenager in a grocery store. He probably doesn’t get paid enough to put up with her bullshit. “I mean, I need something that’ll go with steak salad. I don’t really know a lot about wine.”

“Oh, okay,” the gangly teen nods as though he’s wise in the ways of fruity alcohol despite being unable to legally drink it. “Red. I mean, beef, right? Red works with beef.”

Clarke has no idea, she hates the stuff.

“Right, yeah. Thanks.”

She waits for him to leave, but he hovers by her shoulder as though waiting for instructions.

“Um, thanks,” she tries again, hoping that he’ll leave.

“C’nIhaffyurgrafff?”

The kid thrusts a ripped off piece of blank receipt at her and a pen with a cereal logo stamped on the side.

“Uh…”

“I watched your last match. I think you’re like… really awesome. My buddies will never believe you were here!” the boy shakes as he speaks.

“Oh, right. Yeah, okay. Do want my signature or uh… me or the princess?”

It sounds ridiculous out loud.

“Either!”

“What’s your name?”

“Evan.”

Clarke takes the thin paper and scribbles a quick thanks to the boy and a large, swooping version of her own first name.

“Thanks!” Evan squeaks, and scurries off as fast as he can.

Clarke’s left wondering what just happened. She’s signed plenty of random crap, but always on the way out of the studio. Being approached is something else entirely and she’s not sure how she feels about it. She’s not sure how she feels about a lot of things.

She stares at the same shelf she has been for the past five minutes, all too aware that she’s overthinking. She’s heading to dinner with a friend, she shouldn’t need to impress her with a level of sophistication she doesn’t have. She grabs a mid-range bottle at random. It’ll do.

-

Lexa’s wearing her fabled jeans and a burgundy tank when she opens the door to her apartment. She invites Clarke in and shows her inside. Clarke can’t help but be drawn to watch Lexa’s hips she’s guided into the kitchen. She’s seen Lexa in a spandex singlet for practice, but there’s something about the shape and sway she has in jeans that’s hypnotic. She scolds herself for acting like a lecher.

“We’re not having the whole thing,” Lexa says as she digs around in a drawer for a bottle opener. 

“I figured, but isn’t it traditional to bring a gift when you’re visiting someone’s home?”

“Is it? I thought that was like, dinner parties or birthdays or something.”

“I have no idea,” Clarke admits. “But isn’t this sort of a dinner party?”

“It’s just us, it’s hardly a party.”

“Well what else are we going to call it?”

Lexa flicks her gaze up from the cork she’s unscrewing, but doesn’t say anything. Clarke quickly turns her attention to the neatly arranged array of ingredients on the counter.

“That’s a lot of green stuff,” she says. “I was promised steak.”

“And steak you’ll have!” Lexa declares, finally popping the cork out and pouring each of them a glass. She heads over to the refrigerator and pulls out a two pack of filets, flourishing it as though it’s a great prize. “How do you like it?”

“Rare, please.”

Lexa nods and Clarke sets herself up on a barstool to watch her work. It’s interesting to witness. Seasonings are pressed into the meat and dabbed with olive oil. Clarke salivates in anticipation. The illusion is broken when Lexa digs out a health grill instead of a skillet.

“Oh, come on.”

“What?”

“You’re telling me we’re having steak and you’re not even going to cook it in its own juices?”

“That sounds disgusting. No, we’re having a salad, not a greasy bar meal.”

Clarke sips at her wine. She lets the fruity-spicy liquid run around her tongue and grimaces.

“I hate to tell you this Lexa, but your wine tastes awful.”

“It was a gift. And now I’m gifting that glass of it to you. Refusing it would be rude,” Lexa waves a spoon in a manner that tells her to shut up and drink it. She does, leaning forward on her stool to watch as the corn is drained and leafy greens are ripped into manageable pieces.

-

 “You make better salads than the catering truck,” Clarke says when they’ve finished eating.

“Leaves are leaves. It’s the steak that won you over.”

Clarke shrugs once and agrees.

“I’ll cook for you next time.”

“Oh, there’s a next time?” Lexa folds her arms and stares at her across the table in amusement

“We’re stuck with each other for the foreseeable future. May as well make the most of it.”

“Are you going to make me eat a greasy steak?”

“If you play your cards right.”

“I’m going to play the worst hand that ever existed,” Lexa laughs and Clarke laughs with her.

The playfulness and teasing comes easily between them. All the time they’ve been spending together has left them comfortable with one another and it’s only increased with the wine as a social lubricant. They end up on the couch watching a crappy action movie with a forgettable performance by an actor Lexa has dubbed ‘Christopher Stubblebeard’, because he ‘looks generic enough to be a Chris’.

“Oh come on, you can see him throw the punch!”

“Uh, Lexa, we throw punches for a living.”

“Yeah, but we go for it just with less force. He’s nowhere near touching that guy, look at -,” she gestures emphatically at the screen as ‘Chris’ is swapped out for an obvious body double for the return blow. “It’s so badly done.”

“I mean, yeah it’s bad, but it’s just a movie.”

Lexa tears her eyes away from the television, her expression guilty and slightly embarrassed.  

“Sorry. I can’t seem to turn off from work sometimes.”

“It’s okay, you clearly love what we do.” Clarke gestures to the wall behind them.

Most of the apartment is painted in neutral tones, but the back wall of the living room dedicated to Lexa’s sporting achievements. There’s a line of pictures of her with senior wrestlers, people she clearly admires, and shelves covered with trophies. A large print of her and Anya holding up the women’s tag-team title hangs in pride of place in the centre.

“I do.”

Clarke draws one knee up onto the couch as she turns her full attention to Lexa. She’s not really into the movie anyway, so she’s happy to find an excuse to ignore it.

“How did you get into wrestling? Your bio says you were raised on the mean streets of Polis until Anya dragged you out of the gutter and into the ring. I have trouble believing that.”

“Aww, you read my bio? You looked me up?” Lexa’s smile is wide with amusement. “Do you want my autograph?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I was bored in the bathroom. I’d already read the back of the shampoo bottle.”

“Sure, sure.”

“So come on, how did it really happen?”

Lexa rolls her eyes dramatically, but she sits up straighter to tell her no doubt riveting tale.

“It’s pretty much right. I’d dropped out of high school and was just floating from one barfight to the next. I borrowed money to cover rent on a shitty one room apartment – and I mean one room, you could lean out of the shower and fry yourself eggs at the hotplate – and I couldn’t pay it back. The debt caught up with me, and I ended up in an honest to god fight club. You know, real fists, anything goes kind of brawls,” her eyes go wide and she nods her head dramatically in emphasis.

“I got beat up pretty bad one night and I staggered past Anya’s gym on the way to the emergency med-centre. She dragged my ass in and made me do better. Straight up paid my debts and took me under her wing.”

Clarke narrows her eyes.

“You’re full of shit.”

“That’s no way to speak to your host,” Lexa fires back, hand against her chest in offence. Clarke curls her lip in disbelief. Lexa turns the conversation back on her. “So how about you? You said you wanted to make your mom mad.”

“Yeah. I was going through a rough patch myself. I was fresh out of art school, nursing a few drug habits. You know how artists get, anything to get those creative juices flowing.” If Lexa’s going to be an ass, she can match it.

“I was having trouble with my sugar daddy – he kept me in cash, but he wanted more and more in return. I was in way over my head and my mom wanted to drag me out of the city and into rehab. I didn’t want to go. We ended up having a huge argument over the phone at 3am and I stormed out of my crack den and wandered into the gym. I guess Anya saw something in my glazed over eyes that she liked, and she helped me out. I knew it’d piss my mom off even more that she wasn’t the one to set me straight, so I went for it.”

“Anya’s a saint like that, she takes in any street waif that walks through her doors,” Lexa nods sagely, taking another sip of her wine.

“I still miss the buzz, sometimes,” Clarke sighs.

“Your bio says you’re a corn-fed girl who wrangles cows in her free time.”

“Ah, so you’ve been bored in the bathroom too.”

Lexa shoves her shoulder.

“For real though, I just wanted a job. I _was_ fresh out of art school, I just had no luck finding commissions. My mom wanted me to come home and work as a receptionist at her practice, but it’s not something I wanted. I’m not built for 9 to 5. I was mad and went to the gym, and Anya caught me about to put my back out with rage lifts.”

“Well that’s only slightly less dramatic.”

“Your turn.”

“I already told you my story,” Lexa waves her off.

Clarke crosses her arms and raises one eyebrow in irritation.

“Fine,” Lexa relents. “I wrestled in high school and did a few plays. I might have watched a few episodes back in the day. That’s pretty much all there is to it.”

“I should have guessed you were into drama. You love the crowds.”

“I like performing,” she shrugs.

 “Yeah, I can tell. It’s cute.”

“Cute?” Lexa sputters, lowering her glass midway to her mouth. “The Commander is not cute.”

“Lexa is.”

“There’s no difference.”

“There’s a _huge_ difference,” Clarke says, full on laughing. “The Commander is mean as hell, you are completely huggable.”

“ _Huggable?”_

“Completely!”

“I’m not!”

“You are!” Clarke insists. She leans forward to pluck Lexa’s almost empty glass from her hand, and places it next to her own on the coffee table. She sits back down and opens her arms out. “Come on, I’m going to prove it.”

Lexa stares at her from the corner of the couch. Clarke flexes her fingers in a coaxing gesture, but only receives a lifted brow of amusement in return.

“Don’t make me come over there.”

When Lexa still doesn’t move, Clarke tugs her up and wraps her arms around her in what should be an awkward hug, given the way she has to twist her body on the couch. It doesn’t feel awkward though, when Lexa huffs a laugh into her shoulder.

“You win,” she says as she pats Clarke’s back gamely. “Just don’t go telling all my fans about this. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

When they fall back onto the couch to watch the rest of their crappy movie, Lexa doesn’t slide back into her corner, and all Clarke can think about is finding an opportunity to hug her again.


End file.
